


The Inherent Longing and Romanticism of the Passenger Seat

by FacetiousKitten



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1 Things, Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang, Getting Together, Gratuitous Hand Holding, Kissing, M/M, yes the Bentley is a character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:33:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29145987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FacetiousKitten/pseuds/FacetiousKitten
Summary: Or:  Five times Aziraphale was brave, and one time he didn’t have to be.With art by the ultra talented Clenster!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 43
Collections: Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang





	The Inherent Longing and Romanticism of the Passenger Seat

**Author's Note:**

> Created as part of the Do It With Style reverse big bang.
> 
> Check out my wonderful artist Clenster at [tumblr](https://clensters.tumblr.com/) and [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/clensters/)!
> 
> Smut will be in second chapter, so if you prefer to skip that, you can.

The Bentley’s engine roared and purred as Crowley mashed the pedals. Its tires squealed as he swerved and braked.

Aziraphale, fool that he was, willingly entered this vehicle. Fool that he was, he entered it again and again, all because he desperately wanted a demon. _One_ demon.

These days, he also wanted a demon’s touch. _One_ demon’s touch.

Crowley held the steering wheel, his hands maddeningly far away. Aziraphale wondered what would happen if he were to reach out and touch them, if he were to cradle one of them between his own. [1]

If only Aziraphale could touch him.

*******

One night, when Crowley drove and Aziraphale longed to reach out and touch, to cradle, he could hardly stand it. Swallowed up by gloom, he stared out the passenger window and recalled the memory of the apocalypse – or more accurately, the night when the apocalypse didn’t occur.

“You can stay at my place, if you like,” Crowley had said. Then, “We’re on our own side.”

_Our own side._

Barely moving his head, Aziraphale cut his eyes toward Crowley. The demon had brought the vehicle to a short halt, and was looking at Aziraphale. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, eyes as exposed as the day Aziraphale met him.

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale asked, facing him full on.

“Yes! Course.” He shoved the sunglasses back on and looked at the road. “Never better.”

The engine roared to life as Crowley accelerated with a vengeance, and Aziraphale cried out softly. He stared through the passenger window again, thinking more about the night of the would-be apocalypse.

They had boarded that bus together, the two of them, and sat together. Held hands. Oh, if only Aziraphale could work up the courage to take Crowley’s hand again!

Someday, he would. Someday.

* * *

**ONE**

Well after Armageddon’s failure,[2] something happened. It wasn’t precisely the _someday_ Aziraphale dreamed of, and it wasn’t even on purpose, at least at first. Yet, it was something, and they didn’t do anything to stop it.

Here’s the Something that Happened.

Crowley drove the way a deer runs across a frozen lake – that is, haphazardly, never in a straight line – and Aziraphale clutched the seat as tightly as ever. A deafening _skree_ rang out as Crowley slammed on brakes, then calmly allowed the vehicle to idle in place.

Aziraphale turned his head to, as some say, bless him out, but decided against it. Waste of breath.[3] Anthony J. Crowley[4] was going to drive as he pleased, and _as_ _he pleased_ frightened Aziraphale to bits. There was no way around it. No swerving around the issue, as it were.

The hand that Aziraphale raised to point at Crowley dropped to the seat with a thump. But Crowley’s hand was already on the seat. And Aziraphale touched it. Just the tippy tips of his fingers, brushing the side of Crowley’s pinky.

The Bentley’s acceleration stuttered, and it teeter-tottered through an intersection.

Feeling very brave, Aziraphale left his hand where it lay. His fingers scooted left and right, tickling Crowley’s pinky, the side of his palm. His hand was warm, and smooth, and soft. Crowley did always take good care of his corporation.

Speaking of Crowley’s corporation, it stared straight ahead, ramrod straight, eyes never straying from the road. That was exceptionally weird. But his hand? It didn’t budge.

“About this restaurant,” Aziraphale began, his voice high and quavery, like a baby bird spreading its wings for the first time.

“What about it?” Crowley sounded like himself, but his driving… his driving was strangely normal. Not normal for him, but _normal._ Typical. Average. Like a level-headed human would drive. But he did not move his hand.

Aziraphale couldn’t keep his voice perfectly steady, but he did not move his hand, either.

* * *

**TWO**

And then, the mythical _someday_ arrived.

In the Before Times, pre-Armageddon, they had their fleeting touches. Shoulders bumping while they walked, rubbing elbows when seated together, feet making accidental contact beneath restaurant tables. Fingers brushing when handing off a glass, or on the seat of a car. But, there was always a sense of “No, this cannot be.” And they would separate with much haste.

Post-Armageddon, on the front seat of the Bentley, their fingers kept touching. Day after day, they reached for one another in this small way, found excuses for their hands to be on the seat in order to make this contact happen. It became commonplace. So commonplace, in fact, that Crowley’s driving returned to _his_ normal after a time, and Aziraphale’s voice returned to his normal, as well.

One day, this someday, Aziraphale felt _extra_ brave, and instead of more light touches, he covered Crowley’s hand with his. It felt like coming home, and his corporation went haywire. Pulse racing, respiration increasing – and he didn’t even breathe most days!

The car listed into oncoming traffic, and only by yanking the steering wheel to right their path did Crowley save them from a messy discorporation.

* * *

**THREE**

They held hands all the time, inside and outside of the Bentley. Inside the Bentley was special, though, because whenever Crowley drove recklessly – which was constantly – Aziraphale would squeeze Crowley’s hand in fear. A streak of _thrill_ ran through the fear, though, while hanging on to the being he loved most.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale would admonish. “How many times have I said, you can’t do ninety miles per hour-”

“I can, and I am!” Crowley would cackle his goose-like cackle, and Aziraphale would cling to him all the tighter.

One night, when Crowley parked them outside the bookshop, Aziraphale still clung to him. Riding the adrenaline wave from the high-powered drive, he dropped a courageous little, “I love you.”

Crowley laughed. Not the… _expected_ reaction.

“Uh, yeah,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale’s eyebrows met, wrinkles compressing between them.

“Look. You don’t have to tell me that you love me.”

_Oh, good!_ Aziraphale thought. _He understands!_ On pins and needles, he awaited the typical response.

“You’re an angel, and angels love. It’s as obvious as- as the moon.”

“Come again?” Aziraphale’s eyebrows reunited.

“Don’t think you _have_ to say it, or anything. You love stuff. It goes without saying. You looked at a beggar yesterday with enough love on your face to make me gag.”

“That was compassion! Besides, you’re the one who dropped five pounds in his cup.”

Crowley looked ready to gag in earnest. “Didn’t think anyone saw that,” he muttered.

“Listen to me,” Aziraphale said. “I don’t just _love you,_ you fool! It’s- I- I’m _in love_ with you.”

Crowley took off his sunglasses, and his huge, lamp-like eyes blinked slowly. “This is very human terminology.”

Aziraphale could have kicked him, he was so annoyed. He crossed his arms and huffed. “I don’t know how else to say it, Crowley. I love you, I’m _in_ love with you. I’d face Heaven and Hell again, just for you.”

“This isn’t how I expected this to happen.”

“What in the Hell _did_ you expect?”

Shrugging, Crowley said, “That I’d crack and say it first. And that you might not feel the same way. Then I’d hope that we keep on with the handholding and all that. I… like that. A lot.” He turned his face from Aziraphale.

“Me, too. So, why on Earth would you think I don’t feel the same way?”

“Lots of reasons!” Crowley’s head whipped around, and he counted on his fingers. “We’re not friends. Get thee behind me, foul fiend. We don’t know each other. Hereditary enemies.” He dropped his hand. “Always knew that at least some of that was for show, but I never could tell how much.”

Aziraphale felt small, puny as a piglet. “That. Ah. All that _would_ be confusing, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

“I’m sorry, my dear.”

“But you- you really feel that way?” Crowley asked.

“Yes. You?”

“The same.”

The reached for one another, interlocking fingers.

“Come, Crowley, let’s go inside. I have a lovely Merlot that I think you’ll like.”

Once in the shop, they reached for one another again, and didn’t let go until the morning light.

* * *

**FOUR**

One of the greatest pleasures granted upon Aziraphale by his retirement was the freedom to be seen with Crowley without worrying that they could be _seen._ What if Heaven saw? Worse, what if Hell saw?

Nothing! No _what i_ _f_ at all! It simply didn’t matter anymore. They drove about , enjoying one another’s company, not worrying one iota about their former employers.[5]

Better yet, they were in love! _Love!_ After Armageddon and their confessions, Aziraphale felt changed in so many ways – warmer, more open, more honest, and especially braver.

Crowley’s driving, however, had not changed. Not one bit, nor one iota. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Still drove like the mob was hot on his heels, whether in central London or on the small country roads they currently traversed.

Weren’t these small country roads supposed to be romantic? They were surrounded by gorgeous forests and rolling hills, the sun shining through the trees, lighting their way, yet Crowley did not stop to smell the roses. So to speak.

Nonetheless, their fingers were interlocked, hands lying on the seat, thumbs stroking one another.

“Have you ever considered that there’s no need to drive like that?” Aziraphale asked.

“Have you ever considered that maybe I’m trying to impress someone right now?”

“There’s no one to impress, though?”

“There’s _one person_ to impress.” Crowley eyed Aziraphale over his sunglasses.

“Oh! Good Lord.” Aziraphale blushed as if he harbored the sun in the apple of his cheeks, and looked at the rolling hills with a smile on his face.

“So. Ah.” Crowley’s jaw worked through a series of unintelligible syllables. “This _is_ a date.”

Aziraphale’s heart jumped into action, beating like a tap dancer’s feet. “That- That’s what I assumed.”

“Good. Good.” Nodding to himself, Crowley went on. “There’s a history exhibit out here that I think you’ll like. Things that happened while I was asleep, back in the 1800s. You can catch me up on what I missed.”

Catch Crowley up, he did. The exhibit focused on a group of English authors[6] and composers[7] whose works Crowley slept through back when they first rose to prominence. Aziraphale knew all of the authors, either in person or by correspondence, and several of the composers. In fact, he was a little put out by the fact that none of his own letters had made it into the exhibit.

“I know something that’ll raise your spirits,” Crowley said as they left. “But it’s another drive.”

“Do try not to kill us on the way.”

Crowley made no promises, although the Bentley’s speed was less egregious than typical. When he eventually parked the vehicle, it was atop a uniformly green, grassy hill which ended in steep white cliffs and overlooked the cerulean sea.

“Beautiful view,” Aziraphale said, approaching the cliff. “But, are you allowed to have your vehicle here?”

“Nobody’ll notice. Let’s explore.”

The cliffs and beaches were utterly gorgeous. All they did was amble along, chatting and teasing, holding hands, but it was one of the most wonderful days in Aziraphale’s recent memory.[8] The wind blew Crowley’s short red locks to and fro, and he looked handsome as a statue, silhouetted against the sea off in the distance.

Late that afternoon, Aziraphale hinted that he was getting peckish.

“Good thing I’ve got another surprise, then. Wait round front of the car.” Crowley went to the boot, and when he returned, he carried a large basket.

“Tell me there’s not a child in there,” Aziraphale said.

“There’s not a child in there,” Crowley said, rolling his eyes. Aziraphale couldn’t _see_ his eyes roll through the sunglasses, but he could tell nonetheless. There was always a certain air about the demon when he did it. “Doubt you’d want to eat one of those.”

“Quite!”

Crowley opened the basket to retrieve a blanket and spread it on the ground. He had Aziraphale sit and watch him unload a cornucopia of food: sandwiches, charcuterie, fruit tray, macarons, wine, and more. They tucked into it with gusto – Aziraphale the food, Crowley the wine – and bickered until the sun began to dip into the sea, painting the world in shades of orange and pink.

“I hate to leave, but it’s going to be dark, soon,” Aziraphale said.

“We can stay a little longer.” Crowley snapped his fingers, and the headlights of the Bentley blinked to life.

“Goodness, that’s bright!” Aziraphale shielded his eyes with a hand.

Crowley snapped again, and the headlights dimmed.

Charmed, Aziraphale said, “Thank you, dear.”

“Welcome. Don’t let that last macaron go to waste.”

“It’s all delicious but, oh, I couldn’t eat another bite!”

Crowley waved lazily and, minus his wine, the food disappeared into the basket. Of course he wouldn’t be the type to tidy up the honest way. “Let me finish this,” he said, brandishing his glass.

“Before you drive!?”

“I can sober up!” Crowley thumbed his chest. “Demon. Supernatural entity.”

Aziraphale clicked his tongue and turned away, but Crowley used his hand to cover the angel’s, so all was well.

Once Crowley imbibed the wine and then expelled it,[9] they put the basket in the backseat and sat in the front. Crowley cranked the car, but Aziraphale took Crowley’s left elbow to momentarily stop him from driving. Hoping that he was being gallant and heroic instead of overly forward, he scooted to the middle of the seat, tugged Crowley to himself, and wrapped him in a hug. It was awkward, the angle all wrong, with their upper bodies twisted at the waist, but Crowley was warm and solid, all of his charm and stupidity and acerbic personality condensed into a slim corporation that could be embraced and touched and adored. Aziraphale loved the hug as much as he loved the demon in his arms.

The demon verbalized his own love, adding, “Even if you do act like a schoolmarm when I drive.”

“I love you, too, even if you do drive like a bat out of Hell.”

“Snake.”

“Pardon?”

“Snake out of Hell. I’ve never been a bat.”

“Drive the car.”

“Let go of me, first.”

Aziraphale moved to the passenger side. “Fine. Now dri- _iiive!_ ”

Crowley sped off in reverse, cackling like a maniacal goose.

*******

Hugging was even better than holding hands. Every chance they got, they hugged. Rib-cracking bear hugs. Gentle embraces. Sitting together, arms around one another’s waist, hips touching. There was that time when they laid on Crowley’s bed – how did they get there? – and Crowley rested his head on Aziraphale’s chest, the angel’s arms wrapped tight around his lithe frame.

“I like this,” Crowley said. “You’re so comfortable.”

“Soft.”

“ _Comfortable._ ”

“Wasn’t putting myself down, dear. Just stating a fact.”

“Good.”

“You’re comfortable, too,” Aziraphale said. “Firm. We- we fit together.”

“Like two sides of a mattress.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Yes, like that.”

How could anyone want more?

* * *

**FIVE**

Aziraphale wanted more. Not _much_ more. Just… just a kiss.

The idea shocked him, when it popped into his mind. All they were doing was sitting together, Aziraphale’s head on Crowley’s shoulder, holding hands, as was their custom now. What a blessing. A wonderful, beautiful blessing granted by Armageddon, if not by the Almighty herself.

Crowley spoke – ranted – about a topic for which he displayed a lot of passion, and Aziraphale watched from his perch. Before he knew it, he was only watching Crowley’s mouth move. The purse and stretch of his lips, the tip of his tongue tapping his white teeth.

He lost track of what Crowley was saying. That went unnoticed, as Crowley truly was quite passionate about- about- about _whatever_ the topic was.

_Passion._ Was that what it was? Was that what Aziraphale felt, staring at Crowley’s mouth, wondering how soft his lips were?

Did he want to kiss Crowley?

His head popped up, leaving Crowley’s shoulder so quickly it was a wonder he didn’t bash Crowley’s jaw. _Where had that come from?_

“Wot?” Crowley asked.

“Nothing.”

“Doesn’t seem like nothing.”

“It is, truly. You were saying?”

Though less than convinced, Crowley continued. Aziraphale did his best to pay attention and to forget about the kissing thing.

He couldn’t forget.

*******

Crowley drove them to dinner, then to the theater. Dinner was wonderful until Aziraphale, again, became distracted.

They drank a delicious, deep red Pinot noir, and Crowley’s lips turned crimson, nearly purple. Surprised at the urge, Aziraphale found that he wanted to taste those lips, see if the wine lingered.

Crowley propped himself high on his elbows, bringing his face nearer the center of the table. Did he know what he was doing? Did he realize that he was placing himself close to kissing distance?

Aziraphale choked on his pasta, earning Crowley’s concern. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” he wheezed.

“What were you saying?”

Blinking stupidly, Aziraphale cast out mentally for any trace of what he’d been saying. He dragged in an empty net, looking like a complete fool.

At the theater, he was still distracted. When the play’s main couple kissed on stage, Aziraphale’s eyes slid to the side so as to peek at Crowley, same as he did in the Bentley, oh, how long ago? Unlike Aziraphale, Crowley was focused on the performance, and thus only his profile was visible.

Did he think about kissing? Was that a thing he did? Would he want to kiss Aziraphale?

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hand, and Crowley squeezed back. Didn’t turn to look at him, which was what the angel wanted. So, Aziraphale clandestinely admired his profile, especially his moue of concentration. What would he do if Aziraphale were to kiss that pout right off his face? Smile? Return the kiss? Or, would he laugh him off? Push him away? Growl in revulsion?

As the questions bounced around like a game of pinball in his mind, his heart began to pound. He wasn’t even supposed to _have_ a heartbeat, and yet, there it went! Worse, his palms started to sweat. What on Earth? How was this possible? Why did his corporation keep doing things like this? If Aziraphale didn’t do something, and fast, Crowley would notice the moisture gathering between their hands.

Struck with an idea, Aziraphale disentangled and ran a fingertip across Crowley’s palm. The demon’s skin was smooth and dry, unaffected by angelic sweat.

Crowley looked at Aziraphale and smiled sweetly. Rare thing, that. Demons didn’t smile sweetly. They simply _didn’t._ Yet, Crowley did, and he loosed the smile on Aziraphale, whose heart pounded even harder. Overwhelmed, he had to look away, shield his eyes, or he’d explode.

_Cause of discorporation: a handsome demon smiled at me and then my heart pounded right out of my chest._

Aziraphale’s corporation disobeyed all the way out of the theater and to the Bentley. His knees shook when Crowley, romantic and chivalrous, opened the passenger door for him. He was overwhelmed with so much love! How it didn’t crush him to bits was a mystery.

He grabbed Crowley’s lapel, not quite believing that he was doing this, and whispered his name.

“Yeah, angel?”

“Could- Could I-” Aziraphale’s chin wobbled and, on a rushed exhale, he asked, “Could I kiss you?”

The streetlamps, reflected in Crowley’s lenses, made his eyebrows visible, rising well above his sunglasses. The corner of Crowley’s mouth quirked up, and he said, “Yeah. You could.”

Aziraphale started in for the kiss, but Crowley stopped him to take off his glasses.

“Sorry.” Crowley tucked them into a blazer pocket.

Clinging to Crowley’s lapel, his chin still wobbling, Aziraphale leaned forward and up to touch his lips to the ones he’d been admiring for weeks.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t skillful. But it was perfect, and Aziraphale adored it.

Crowley thumbed Aziraphale’s shaking chin. “Why so nervous?”

Aziraphale thought he was being quite brave, thank you very much. He frowned. The frown quivered, just like his chin.

“I won’t bite, you know. Yet.”

Aziraphale’s frown deepened.

Crowley chuckled, but there was a hint of nervousness in his expression, as well. “You could kiss me again.” He stroked Aziraphale’s bottom lip with his thumb. “If you wanted.”

Aziraphale wanted that. He wanted it badly. So, he did it.

Thirty minutes later, they still hadn’t gotten in the car.

* * *

[1]Not while Crowley drove, of course. He was a dangerous enough driver to begin with.

[2]Or Adam Young’s success.

[3]He didn’t _need_ the breath, but still.

[4]What _did_ that J stand for?

[5]Aziraphale didn’t worry one iota, but he might have worried one dot, or maybe even a tittle.

[6]No, not that one.

[7]Not those. Those other ones.

[8]“Recent” for him reached back no less than forty years.

[9]Almost seemed a waste, doing things that way.

**Author's Note:**

> About the exhibit on those authors and composers: I don’t have much of an idea who they are. Fill in the blanks as you see fit.
> 
> The cliffs they visit? I’m imagining Beachy Head in the South Downs National Park.


End file.
